When You Find Me
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: Merlin hasn't been to Albion in over a hundred years when he awakens one day and desires to return. He does nothing now but wander from place to place, lost forever in a modern world while his heart and soul belong to an ancient king, and so he gathers his bags and goes. The first night he is awoken by light and the sound of pure magic in the air. Arthur is returning. Tag to 5x13.


_So. The finale.  
Cried for twenty minutes.  
Me, I mean.  
My non-writer mother stared at me like I was a mental case; I promptly explained to her that Arthur is just a big, stupid, prattish, freaking adorable person, and he's never done anything to deserve that, and he was so _young!  
_I'll admit that I really was expecting it, though; I've had the feeling from the start that this is how it would end. But still. I just wasn't expecting the whole _tragedy _of it all; I guess that's what makes it a good story, though. It finishes with grief and uncertainty, but still has hope for a better future for our favorite character, Merlin. That's why __I wrote this piece just for myself, because immediately after that final snippet with the truck, my imagination went to work. The following story is really sappy, totally non-plotish, and made up almost entirely of brotherhood, tears, and hugs. It's rather ridiculous and hippy-like. You have been warned.  
For those of you who know me here already, this is a modern fic set totally apart from anything TVITD-related. It's just a little something to cheer you up hopefully, if you're like me and still feel sad to think it's over, and over like _this. _We really loved you, Arthur. If you had a grave, I'd put a flower on it._

* * *

I need you to know today  
I'll wait for you always.  
When I find you,  
I'll find me.  
~When You Find Me, Joshua Radin

* * *

**When You Find Me**

Were his life a story—his true life, not the one misinterpreted in medieval history books—Merlin was certain everyone in the world would have stopped reading by now.

In fact, he was sure they would have all stopped a long, long time before now. They might have gone a chapter or two after Arthur's death, but even a most devoted reader would have soon put the book down after that point. There was nothing of interest after Arthur's death. There was nothing at all, really.

Perhaps the culture of the following…oh, thousand or so chapters of his story after Arthur would tickle the fancy of some. There was certainly a lot of culture. There was the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, the Industrial Revolution. There were battles fought and books written and so many changes in the people of Albion that it was soon evident that Merlin, the oldfangled wizard from a medieval court, didn't even recognize the spirit of the land any longer. Everything changed around him after Arthur. Everything fell apart and rebuilt itself again, repeatedly; each time the world emerged more complex and corrupt than before, and Merlin…

…well, Merlin did nothing.

Oh, he had his hand in circumstances here and there. Some dreaded plagues were halted from causing great loss by his healing magic, some famines and floods prevented. The most notable thing he'd ever done was when he finally grew tired of hearing the name "Hitler" attached to a death count, and so he did away with him. He'd probably saved thousands more lives by putting him down that day.

Yes, he probably had. Thousands of innocent lives…all of which were over now anyway. Maybe there was in a nursing home somewhere a senile person who had been one of those spared, but that was all that was left of his heroic deed. It didn't matter who he saved. They all died in the end. So what, exactly, was the point?

He'd forgotten long ago what the point was. And that was why he was sure everyone would have stopped caring about his story. People liked to read about heroes. People loved heroes, brave and noble and sure heroes. Merlin may have been brave, but he didn't ever bother doing anything that required his bravery anymore. Nobility in the same fashion was also rather foreign to him by now. And surety? The only thing he was sure of was that he wasn't sure about anything, and hadn't been, since Arthur.

There was no story after Arthur. It was as simple as that.

He liked to think he'd tried to find one. It wasn't like he'd just sat down and withered away. He'd gone back to Camelot. He'd helped Guinevere sign in the new laws that freed magic. He'd served her for a while and eventually became court physician and sorcerer and advisor and did all those things he'd always secretly hoped to do someday for Arthur. He hadn't hated it. Sometimes he'd even loved it, especially after more and more practitioners of magic started turning up to learn from him. It had been…fulfilling.

Except it wasn't.

So when he'd left, all long white hair and sunken cheeks and wild, sorrowful eyes, he'd become a travelling seller of herbs and tonics and magic spells. And he'd continued to do that, all through the past one thousand, five hundred, and thirty-three years. A perfect stereotype for witches and magicians all throughout the centuries.

And to think, once he'd been regarded as the Greatest Warlock Ever to Walk the Earth. Whatever.

"Oy!"

He ignored it when the raspy voice of a local man shouted at him as he passed. It wasn't _his_ fault these lakeside roads were too narrow, and surely the drunk, no matter how drunk he was, should be able to see an old man lugging heavy bags down the dirt lane. It wasn't _that_ foggy out.

The man cursed into the silence when Merlin refused to turn around and acknowledge his irritation, but he apparently had some small degree of respect for those older than him, because he let it go at that; his uneven footsteps echoed loudly against the wet dirt as he stomped on his way, like a child denied attention.

Gods, Merlin hated humanity. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes he still loved them. But rarely.

For the next long while, the only noise he heard was the sound of his own footsteps sloshing upon the soaked earth. His mind was empty except for his destination. He didn't care about anything else, not because his destination was something so wonderful (for it wasn't), but simply because he didn't have anything else to think about. These days, all of his old thoughts of depth—of the world, life, love, everything—were but gone.

Once, long, long ago, he recalled Arthur accusing him of thinking too much. But that's when Arthur had been alive, and Merlin had had something to think about, someone to guide and guard, and enemies to outwit in order to do just that. Now, when he did think in depth about anything, it wasn't like it had been before. He didn't ponder witty retorts to entertain those around him, or make decisions that would shape a kingdom, nor even did he spend hours studying spells from his book. That sort of thinking was useless now, and he knew all the spells backwards and forwards, anyway.

These days, when he did consider anything deeply, it was more longing than anything else. Longing for that old time, those old people…and that one person in particular, who was more precious and special than anyone before him and anyone since. Merlin liked to pretend sometimes that he didn't miss him that much, tried to tell himself that Arthur had just been another person he'd known, another life he'd lost. _It was so long ago; why even remember him? He probably wouldn't remember me. _But then he'd soon think of the king's smile, as he often did, that one that had always sent warmth flooding through Merlin's veins along with his magic when he'd seen it back in Camelot, had always reminded him it was _that smile_ and all it represented for which he fought. He'd hear the faintest memory of Arthur's laugh drifting across his imagination. And just like that, all the doubts he had been inflicting upon himself about that glorious past would dissipate, and instead he would recall how there was nothing in his life now like seeing that smile.

He would other times remember conversations, light and teasing or low and grave, which had drifted between them, back and forth so easily, like breathing. He had spoken to no one at all in weeks, not a single, pitiful word. Not that anyone spoke to him first. An old man with long, white hair and a beard got considerably less attention than average people, and what little attention he did get were mostly untrusting stares. Apparently he looked even more cold and unfriendly than he felt.

At this moment, though, he was thinking of nothing as he walked. Perhaps he believed that if he intently thought of nothing, he would be able to pass by that one place on his way without remembering.

But of course, before he even knew it, he had turned from the dirt path to a cement road, and as the sound of a speeding truck just faded behind him, his feet touched the ground where Kilgharrah had put them down—young Merlin's body warm and shaking, Arthur's cold and silent in his arms—and he stuttered to a stop against his own will.

"_Take heart, for when Albion's need is greatest, Arthur will rise again."_

The sight of Arthur's floating pyre and the sound of Kilgharrah's words crossed his mind all at once. This place, this view from the shore across the Lake of Avalon to the island in the midst, was a place of immense grief and great hope all at once, for it was here he'd accepted that Arthur was gone, and here he'd learnt he would someday get him back.

Merlin lifted his head and continued walking. He could do nothing else.

* * *

When he arrived at his cottage in the forest, he was almost surprised to find that the candles he'd left here all those—What was it? Hundred? Hundred and ten?—years ago were still in working condition, and though the glass in the windows was broken out, nothing else much seemed to have been disturbed. This was one of his many small homes where he stayed when wandering from place to place across Albion. He had dozens of these "small" homes, but none would or could ever compare to his real home. Nothing compared to the Camelot before Arthur's death.

When he set down his bags upon the floor and simultaneously used his magic to breathe flames upon all the candles, he realized this little building was not as well-preserved as he'd thought. The floorboards were rotting and splintered, several pieces of furniture collapsed, the rafters and shelves coated in fine dust. The staircase beside the little sitting room ahead was likewise rotting at the same pace as the ladder that led to the loft to his right; the chimney in the sitting room had caved in many years ago, and the one in the kitchen looked as though it was nearing collapse.

Merlin's eyes took in the damage, and then he closed them and inhaled a soft breath. When he released it, his eyes flashed open to glow bright gold in the shadowed doorway, and like an invisible wave, healing spread throughout the large space. Floorboards regrew and straightened themselves out, table legs and torn chairs mended, dust rushed away, and shattered glass fit itself like a self-solving puzzle in the window frames. The staircase became strong again; the chimney stacked itself up. Every corner and nook became like it was the day Merlin had left it last.

With a small sigh of satisfaction at his work, Merlin leant down and unzipped his duffel bag. He carried little with him, for he needed little. A few small books, some herbs he'd picked on his way, a constant change of clothes. He kept the same three pairs of clothes with him; it wasn't as though a warlock of his power had to worry about wear and tear. Other than that, it was only the necessities in the larger of his faithful little bags.

Once he had tossed these few items into their proper places, he turned to the last bag. He was always careful with this one; there were things within it that were so much more valuable than a meager change of clothes.

He smiled softly, his eyes crinkling up at the corners, as he removed the first object and held it carefully in graceful, weathered hands. Gaius's book of magic was so outdated, its pages made of parchment and string, but it would always be his favorite in a library of worldwide masterpieces. The next was his mother's mixing spoon, the only one she ever owned, which he used frequently himself now. Then, Gwaine's necklace, which Merlin had managed to take before they'd burnt him on his pyre just after Arthur's ceremonial pyre burnt out…the wooden dragon his father had carved for him…Lancelot's scarf…Guinevere's favorite necklace…and lastly and most cherished of all, the seal handed to him by Arthur on one of those nights beside a fire, when the king had thought himself doomed to die. It had been Ygraine's. It was the only thing Arthur had had of his mother, and he'd given it to Merlin. Because Arthur had loved Merlin, and hadn't wanted him to forget their friendship.

As if Merlin could ever hope to forget.

Once these items were set aside, tucked safely on a little bookshelf in the sitting room beside a crackling fireplace, Merlin wandered away from them. He never looked at them for too long. It only made him long more for their owners.

* * *

He'd never liked to be alone at night.

He was certainly used to it now, falling asleep in the same silence which haunted his daylight hours, with the sorrowful addition of darkness. He hadn't been alone those first few weeks after Arthur's death, it was true; Gaius had been just in the next room, ready and willing to offer comfort if necessary, but Merlin had felt alone nevertheless. He'd felt as though he was the only person in the world who had ever suffered like that.

Perhaps he was. After all, the bond he and Arthur shared was extraordinary. There was not another like it anywhere.

When Gaius had died only a few years later, Merlin had felt truly alone at night. Once again, he'd barely slept three hours without restlessness driving him to pace or roam the castle. But he'd been getting used to it ever since. He slept fine now.

That didn't mean he liked it, though.

So it was that, when he was suddenly torn from his sleep by a sound unlike anything he'd ever heard, it barely took him seconds to awaken fully. He sat up in the loft where his little bed was, and his breath was stolen from him when he realized the whole of his little cottage was bathed in a nearly blinding white light. The light shifted, intermixed with pale blue rays almost resembling the reflection of water, and he blinked twice before his still-quick mind registered the source of the light.

He turned so quickly in the bed that his blanket tumbled off into the floor. As soon as he was facing the window beside it, the trees just outside the glass seemed to come alive, bending sideways though there was no wind; one after another did this, until they made a path of open air all the way across his section of the forest. When they stopped folding down, the exact origin of the mighty, thrumming light and eerily musical pitches was clear. An island in the center of the lake, far off in the distance.

Not just an island. _The _island, the one to which Arthur's dead body had drifted. The one where he was supposed to have been healed all those centuries ago, but where he had been forced to go in death instead. The island.

Now, the trees outside froze as though stopped in time, and the rays of light echoing from the isle so far out carried with them such great strength of magical power that Merlin could feel it vibrating in his very bones. The sky was red and orange and purple and blue, shifting and shimmering like a misplaced aurora borealis above. It was like nothing the old warlock had felt for a thousand and five hundred years. It was more than he'd felt since the moment Arthur had died.

His heart leapt in his chest. Hardly daring to think of what it could mean for horrible fear of being wrong, he stumbled down the little ladder from his loft. His bare feet had scarcely touched the cool wood floor before he was pushing off again, rushing through his little house, throwing open the oak front door, and running, feet bare and wearing only his nightclothes in the freezing weather. He didn't notice; he didn't even notice his breath emerging as a misty cloud in the cold. His eyes were locked upon the island past the thick trunks of the trees in the wood. He could think of nothing else—not even breathing.

He crossed through a tiny, sleepy neighborhood and two streets before he reached the shore. He never stopped. His body was diminished, but his spirit was as boundless and rampant as it had ever been.

He stopped only when his feet nearly touched the water that licked at the shoreline, and even then, it was only seconds until his forever sharp eyes caught glimpse of a little boat bobbing at the edge. It wasn't until he leapt into it, uncaring of whose it was, and forced his eyes back down from the island—now close, so very, very close and bright—that he realized. This was the boat. This was the same boat in which he had placed his dead king, where he had laid him so carefully and arranged his cloak and touched his lifeless face. He'd seen it in his loneliest dreams enough to recognize it even in the dark.

Swallowing the chilled air, he felt his eyes flash gold, and immediately the boat obeyed.

Each passing second was like a torment to Merlin, and he found himself leaning forward in the little rowboat, if for nothing else just to get as close as possible to the wonderful, sweet, potent magic emanating from the island. When he was near enough at last, he didn't even wait until the craft stopped; he leapt out, splashing icy lake water in all directions and all over his own clothes, and gazed up at the great monument in the center of the land. Even crumbled and broken apart, it was mighty as any of the grand skyscrapers in modern cities. It was mightier.

It was calling him. He could feel it, tugging insistently upon his soul. He needed to be up there.

And so he ran, and didn't care when he stumbled and cut his knees trying to reach it.

When he did, finally, _gods, finally_, his legs froze under him. He could only stare, eyes wide with more emotion than he'd felt in decades, while the light began to take shape at once before his eyes. It melded together, so bright he had to squint and shield his face partly with his arm; it shifted until it had molded out of itself a crown, a cape, broad shoulders, bristling hair. Then it changed, turned colors, dimmed, until it melted away altogether into a dead pile on the ground like a snakeskin, and what it left behind wasn't a trick of light. It wasn't light at all.

It was him.

The first thing Merlin's old and tired eyes locked upon was the stunning deep blue of Arthur's; they were wide open and standing out sharply against his pale skin, glancing around as though startled by the sudden darkness of the open night sky. Two tall, iron candlesticks stood on either side of him, the dozen little flames reflecting off of the polished silver of his armor and emanating enough light for Merlin to see clearly. His face was as stupidly handsome as Merlin remembered, his hair that soft, delicate blonde, his cape a familiar, perfect, Camelot shade of red. Upon his head was the golden crown that had been forged just for him by loving subjects; it had been lost centuries ago, but there it was, as solid and true as Merlin's love for him.

He didn't look anything like the sick, weak, wounded young man Merlin had held in his arms that terrible day. He looked like he had before Camlann—vibrant and promising and _alive_. He was the most beautiful thing Merlin had seen in a long, long time. In fact, he, standing there like that, was probably the most beautiful thing Merlin had seen, ever.

At least, the old warlock thought so, until Arthur's eyes finally adjusted to the night's dark and the king saw him there, just outside the circle of candlelight.

Then, Merlin found his breath stolen by the smile. It was _that smile_, the one he'd missed more than anything. It lit up everything around them.

"Merlin."

Arthur sounded pleased, relieved, like he had been afraid Merlin wouldn't be there.

The warlock choked on a laugh and felt his hand go to his mouth much like it had when he'd watched a dragon be born for the first and last time, because while that had been wondrous, even it couldn't compare to this. But then, the aged hoarseness of his own laughter reminded him of what he'd become. He was ancient, haggard; he thought of his white beard, his wrinkled face, his skinny body, and he wondered how Arthur had even recognized him now. It had been whole lifetimes since he'd been that dark-haired manservant.

He walked forward nevertheless into the soft candlelight surrounding his king, and Arthur reached out for him with both hands, and he was grinning the way he had when he and Merlin had survived some awful tragedy, all those years back in Camelot. He was grinning like he'd never been gladder in all his life—like Merlin was the best thing he could hope to see, though Merlin was sure that could not be true; he was only a shadow of what he had been.

Though he had imagined this moment countless hundreds of times in the past centuries, and enacted it in his mind so that he had every detail of what he would do planned, Merlin was abruptly and unexpectedly ashamed. _"I don't want you to change."_ That's what Arthur had said, when he'd been in such pain the day before his death, and here, Merlin had. He'd changed so much.

"I look so different," were the words which tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. He used to be so good with words; he supposed this is what not talking for weeks on end did to a man.

Something flashed in Arthur's eyes, and his smile fluctuated with some kind of sadness for just a moment, but then Merlin had taken the last step so that he was close enough for his king to touch him. Arthur settled one of his open hands upon the warlock's narrow shoulder and the other against the side of his head; the leather glove was cool against Merlin's ear through his snowy hair.

A great amount of pity formed in the corners of the other man's eyes, and he tightened his hand around the top of Merlin's arm without yet saying a word.

"I'm sorry," the warlock went on with candid helplessness lacing his voice. "I've changed. I'm different. I'm not who you remember—"

"Merlin."

Just the sound of him, saying his name like that, so quietly and kindly, brought Merlin to utter silence.

Arthur hadn't stopped smiling, though his expression had softened so that his smile was nothing but gentle. He was gazing into Merlin's eyes, and he must have seen something there that touched him, because his other hand moved to stroke Merlin's hair as well.

"It doesn't matter," he said, mildly, like it was something so trivial. "It doesn't matter, Merlin. You're mine. You're still mine."

It didn't matter. He was still Arthur's. Even if he had changed beyond all recognition, even if he wasn't anything like Ancient Merlin used to be, it wouldn't matter to Arthur. Because he still _belonged_ to Arthur, body, mind, and soul, and so he would find a way to be what his king needed. Always.

Nothing else mattered.

Merlin felt the first of hot tears spilling from his eyes. A picture that had haunted him always for over a millennium leapt up in his mind—Arthur's handsome face, gaunt and gray with exhaustion, his eyes bright with pain, seconds from death but smiling bravely through his fear and suffering. That was the last time Merlin had seen him alive, and it had tormented him ever since.

But that wasn't Arthur anymore. That wouldn't be his final memory of him anymore. He was here, and whenever Merlin thought of him from now on, this is who he would be remembering—this moment is what would stay with him now, more than that terrible farewell.

_He's here._

Merlin, barely able to think past this revelation, threw his arms around his king's neck and heard himself sob openly. Memories flashed across his mind—himself, so young and yet so tired, standing knee-deep in lake water and fighting the irrational desire to pull the pyre-boat back to him. He'd almost whispered for Arthur to wake up before he'd let the boat go, before he'd stopped himself .

Now, he could feel Arthur warm and awake against him, could feel his strong hands stroking his aching back, the back of his head, his long hair. He twisted his own, knobby fingers in the blonde hair at the back of Arthur's neck and pressed his face into the dip between the man's shoulder and throat, like he was kissing him. Maybe he was.

Arthur hid a smile in Merlin's shoulder as the warlock's new beard—a beard, _Mer_lin with a beard—tickled him. He could feel his friend's tears soaking the shoulder of his cape and the violent sobs wracking his old body so hard that he almost feared it would break him. But then, Merlin wasn't easily broken. He knew that better than anyone.

"Please don't let this be a dream," choked the warlock's worn voice, and Arthur's heart broke for him.

"It's not a dream," he assured him softly, pressing his fingers more firmly into his friend's back, to prove it to him. "I'm here, Merlin. I'm here."

The king said nothing else while Merlin continued to weep, clutching him with strength a man of his age and slight weight shouldn't have. Arthur did nothing but smile against wispy, white hair and clutch Merlin in return, for though he could not remember anything of the past thousand, five hundred years, he did somehow know that's how long it had been, and he knew that, wherever he'd spent it, he'd missed Merlin just as much as Merlin had missed him.

He turned his head a little and couldn't help a breath of laughter escaping him as he felt the strangeness of wrinkles over an unusually sharp cheekbone pressed against the side of his face. Merlin had wrinkles. It was so inconceivable it was almost—almost—hilarious.

They stayed this way for a very long time, and the world past this little circle of candlelight had ceased to exist. There was nothing to either of them except the other, exactly as it had been so often back in Camelot. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else would ever matter, as long as they had each other. Arthur had never realized that in Camelot, but he did now. He suddenly believed it with all his being.

At long last, Merlin's sobs started to ease and the warlock shifted impossibly closer in his arms, whispering, _"Arthur, Arthur, Arthur…"_ over and over, like a prayer. The king wondered if his friend even knew he was saying it.

"Shh, Merlin," he soothed him, moving one hand to cup the back of his head. "I'm here."

"I've been waiting," he coughed as his breath stuck in his throat, "for so long. I've missed you…_Arthur_…I…I've missed you…"

"I know," he murmured into his ear, nudging his forehead against him, for now he felt the love Merlin had always been forced to hide echoing like a promise. "I know you have."

He ran his hand down his friend's back once more, a troubled feeling coming over him as he felt the protruding spine through Merlin's thin nightclothes. It stuck out from the back of his neck all the way down to the base, and if Arthur hadn't been so overjoyed to be with him, he would have been angry at him for taking such poor care of himself.

It was only a few more heartbeats before Merlin finally pulled away, but he gripped Arthur's biceps tightly, either because he was too weak with emotion to stand on his own, or because he was afraid the man might disappear if he let go. Perhaps it was both.

The king saw Merlin's eyes, that they were still raw and red from crying, but there was such complete joy in them that he was sure it could have melted the coldest of hearts.

"You're perfect," Merlin stated, without passion, like it was just a common knowledge, and Arthur would have laughed aloud if he hadn't known why he said it, but he did know; the last time Merlin had seen him, he'd been so sick and hurt that he couldn't even sit up on his own. He felt strong and healthy now, as much as he had as a prince, and that made him perfect in Merlin's eyes.

He grinned again, and touched a hand to his friend's weathered face, chuckling in fondness when Merlin's immediate reaction was to place his palm over Arthur's fingers and close his eyes.

Arthur looked past Merlin's shoulder, out across the dark and shifting waters, where tiny pinpoints of light were visible. There hadn't been a town there before. He wondered if Merlin lived there, somewhere.

"Well?"

Merlin opened his eyes (they were tired-looking now, Arthur noted, like his warlock was finally ready to rest), and the king gestured with his head toward the opposite shore.

"Aren't you going to invite me into your home, Merlin? It's a bit chilly out."

Merlin let out a breathless laugh and released his king's hand, glancing back toward the lonely place from which he'd come.

"I'm afraid it's not much of a home," he said, with sorrow.

The teasing sparkle in Arthur's eyes faded a little, and he tilted his head to get his old friend's attention.

"Take me anyway," he told him, and it wasn't quite a command.

Merlin regarded him for a moment, thought about how much more comfortable and warm his little cottage would be with him in it, and then took his friend's forearm to guide him down the hill, toward the world that had moved on without them but needed them more than it knew.

* * *

To see Arthur walking along these streets where Merlin had just earlier walked, so alone, was the most surreal feeling he'd experienced in all his long life. While he himself probably looked suitable for this place, in his worn button-down nightshirt and his loose pants and his white hair and beard, Arthur looked nothing like this sleepy and uninteresting neighborhood; he stood out like a sun at midnight would, with his gleaming armor and his long cape and his noble crown, which he'd taken off and was carrying in his hands, because he'd never felt right wearing his crown anywhere besides his official throne room, because that was the kind of king he had been.

Was. The kind of king he _was_.

More than how he was dressed, though, even his face stood out in this cold and selfish land. Though strong and war-hardened, it was pure and kind, the face of a loving king who would fight for the innocent and vanquish the evil. He was like the prince in a book of fairytales. He didn't seem real.

But he was. He was real.

He watched him walk and saw his eyes—those beautiful blue eyes—take in all the weird new sights, the power lines crisscrossing above them, the fireless lanterns glowing on some front porches, the automobiles, with such courage and receptiveness. He watched his brow crinkle as he smelt gasoline from one of the garages, and then relax when he spotted a large Clydesdale peering at them over a fence.

They didn't much speak as they walked, not because there wasn't much to say, for there was—fifteen lifetimes worth; it was only that for the moment, Merlin could think of none of that. He only wanted to watch him, to be sure he was real. Just in case this was another dream.

Arthur followed Merlin through the winding streets made of smooth stone, and though he was unnerved in some ways by the differences in the common homes around him, he never once felt nervous at where he was going. He wouldn't be lost, as long as he followed Merlin.

They didn't speak at all, until they turned onto the final road of their journey and almost ran straight into a speeding pickup truck.

Merlin felt Arthur jolt beside him as the blinding headlights filled their visions, and he pulled him roughly to the side even as the king pulled his sword from its sheath in reflex.

"It's all right," he soothed the frightened man, even as he cursed in his mind at the reckless idiots who could have potentially taken him away again.

Arthur released the breath he'd been holding as his eyes followed the red lights disappearing over the hill.

"It's all right," Merlin said again, gentler, as he touched his cool hand to the man's throat (for that had always gotten Arthur's attention).

The king lowered the tip of Excalibur to the ground and swallowed, as though ashamed of his reaction to the strange, loud thing once he realized it was nothing Merlin feared.

"It's all right, Arthur," Merlin murmured to him. "It's just a car. It's a machine. People use them to travel, instead of horses."

"It's just something I'll have to get used to," Arthur said simply, and Merlin had never been prouder of his courage.

* * *

When they stepped into Merlin's cottage in the forest, away from any electric lights or cars, Merlin wasted not a moment to open the door, for by now, he'd come to realize that his bare feet and hands were freezing and Arthur's face was getting bitten by the cold. He pushed open the door and lit the candles scattered about the place all in one motion, and the first thing Arthur did as he paused in the doorway was say,

"It's…lovely."

And Merlin laughed, because Arthur _was_ really trying to sound considerate, but he simply had never been able to lie convincingly, and never could. It was one of those reasons Merlin, and everyone else, had always loved him so.

"It's an old, cricket-infested, lopsided hole in the forest," he returned without grace, as he kicked one of said crickets outside with his foot.

He never saw it, but Arthur's mouth turned up in a fond half-smile at him.

Merlin was startled, despite himself, when he turned after setting Arthur's shed armor neatly under the staircase and found the man seated in the loft on Merlin's own bed, dressed in the soft nightclothes Merlin had given him and looking at his hands as though in contemplation of something.

"There is a bed for you," the old warlock called to him, "upstairs, in your own room. I have blankets for it in a closet."

This he said as he approached the loft, and when he'd climbed the little ladder, he added with a smile that (for the first time in centuries) touched his eyes,

"It is old, but much like me, it's still good for its purpose."

Arthur exhaled in laughter and shifted so that Merlin could sit alongside him on the warm, feather-stuffed mattress. He was silent for a moment, as he raised his head and looked across the place to the balcony at the top of the staircase, where he could just see the room to which Merlin referred; it looked dark and lonely and cold up there, he thought, and then he turned his focus to the way his warlock was touching the back of his weathered hand to Arthur's own, without even thinking about it, apparently.

He stood and picked up the blanket from the floor where it had fallen at some time, and he wrung it in his hands nervously as he faced the warlock. Merlin was watching him with quiet bewilderment, but there was also tenderness in his ancient eyes, and Arthur felt complete liberty to speak without fear or embarrassment. He wondered if this had always been so—if he had always had freedom to speak to Merlin about anything—and he had been too proud or self-conscious to realize it in his past.

"Merlin," he began, and though the sorcerer was the last person he could remember seeing, it still felt like it had been a thousand years since he'd said his name.

The old warlock reached out and gently tugged the blanket away from him, forcing Arthur to release his insecurities when his hands no longer had something to fidget with.

"Would it be…I mean, would you mind very much if I—"

Merlin raised his eyebrows, a subtle encouragement, and that's when a flash of the old Merlin swept across Arthur's mind. He used to give him that same look. He really hadn't changed too much, at all.

"—stayed here, for the night?" he finished, and he could feel himself making that face he always did when he was uncertain of something.

But then, Merlin hadn't stopped staring at him for longer than a few seconds at a time, so maybe it wasn't such an odd request. Maybe they just wanted to be close to each other.

Merlin appeared vaguely startled for a moment, but then, either the request itself or the look on Arthur's face as he'd made it seemed to amuse him; his tired, hooded eyes lit up and he smiled in that way he used to, when Arthur had done or said something awkward and clumsy but it had only made Merlin like him all the more. Sometimes it had made Arthur feel stupid or silly, but this time, it only made him feel secure.

Then the blanket in his sorcerer's worn hands lifted itself up just slightly; Merlin stood and it laid itself out neatly over the bed, tucking its edges in at the bottom. The two pillows straightened where one had been askew.

Arthur glanced to him gratefully and smiled, and then, at the sight of the comfortable-looking bed empty, he couldn't resist the urge to crawl in beneath the blanket; the softness of the pillow made his eyes shut on their own accord. He suddenly realized how bone-deep tired he truly was.

"Come on," he mumbled in a kingly command without edge as he tucked one arm under the pillow. He was unsure about the world outside, what sort of frightening things could be awaiting him now, but one thing he did know: Merlin was here, he was going to sleep beside him, and he didn't need to fear anything when he had him close by.

The warlock was stunned for a short moment, for he hadn't expected Arthur—_Arthur_ ,who had been dead just two hours ago, nothing but a wonderful memory and a dimming hope, _his Arthur_—just to settle down like that, as though he was used to it, like they were still lying outside somewhere on a hunt or quest, like he'd never even left his side at all.

But he went to the foot and crawled in likewise (his old hand braced against the wall below his window for balance), because he didn't want to waste this time, just in case it were all vivid dream still and he would awaken soon with nothing but that memory of Arthur falling asleep—on his left, as always.

He relaxed with his head slightly propped against the pillow and the headboard, white hair strewn messily at his shoulders, but he didn't care about that. He could feel the muffled warmth of Arthur's body beside him, and it took every fiber of his self-control not to reach out and stroke the blonde hair that glinted moonlight in the corner of his eye.

At that moment, Arthur blinked over at him and proceeded to roll onto his side.

Merlin jolted ever-so-slightly with surprise as Arthur moved so that his head was suddenly on Merlin's chest at his shoulder and his arm slung across his ribcage. Merlin was old and feeble and thin, he knew, but Arthur didn't seem to mind his jutting bones. He just asked, quietly, into the stillness of the night,

"Is this okay?"

And Merlin answered, just as quietly,

"Yes,"

and blinked away the memory of Arthur, dying, whispering, _Just hold me, please_. He'd held him before then, in the darkest moments of his life, when there was no one in Arthur's chambers but the two of them and Arthur had always pleaded for pity, never with words, but with his eyes, and Merlin of course could never have resisted. Now, he wasn't holding him because one or both of them was hurt, or lost, or scared. He was holding him just to hold him, because no matter how different they appeared, they were brothers. More than brothers, they were two halves of a broken whole, reunited at last.

"It's all right, you know."

Arthur's voice now was nearly like he was drunk, slurred with slumber that was quickly settling over him.

"It's all right, Merlin."

The warlock brushed his hand over Arthur's arm, pulling him closer, and with the other hand he pushed soft strands of blonde from Arthur's face.

"I'm here. You're fine. I'm here. We're going to do something great, Merlin."

Merlin stilled and just held him, turning his face to look out the window at the full moon as he listened with tears burning in his throat—though were they tears of joy or pure wonder, he wasn't quite sure.

"We're going to be fine, old friend." Arthur's tone was fading, just his fingers smoothing over Merlin's shirt at his side as he whispered in his near-sleep. "We're fine."

Merlin felt the moment when his king drifted off into a long, deep rest, but he stayed awake for the remainder of the night, watching the moon through his window and listening to Arthur breathe against him and pondering how it could possibly be that it felt like he hadn't even seen the stars in centuries, until this very moment. But it felt just like that, and the modern world, with all its declining morality and its irreversible changes, didn't feel so hateful and impossible to rescue now. In fact, he thought, he might go further than just the town limits to sell his herbs the next time he went; he might go into the busy square, and even travel toward the city and show Arthur the grand skyscrapers. He might show him everything in the whole world.

And so for the first night in one thousand, five hundred years, the old warlock of forgotten Camelot didn't think about everything he'd lost as he lay there in the dark, because he had everything he needed in his arms, dreaming peacefully. He had found himself again the moment he'd looked into Arthur's eyes. That was all he needed. That was all he would ever need.

**End**

* * *

_I did warn you it'd be sappy. You can't say I didn't.  
I hope you all had a very happy Christmas, even though the finale was on Christmas Eve. And on that note, I feel like I should say one more thing at the risk of making this fic even sappier: Merlin will never end as long as we remember him. I've met some awesome people through this fandom, and Merlin has inspired me in many more ways than just as something to watch on Saturdays. Actually, much of what I've learned about storytelling and character development over the past few years has been from observing the show and characters. I'll keep writing about them for many stories to come, for sure.  
Thanks for reading! Let me know your comments on the show in a review; I'd like to hear your post-finale thoughts._


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